


Oz

by quadrotriticale



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Gen, Natasha is good, POV Second Person, POV Steve Rogers, Suicide Attempt, i love natasha romanov, steve has a bad time dot jpeg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-06
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2019-06-06 01:28:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15183728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quadrotriticale/pseuds/quadrotriticale
Summary: Washington D.C, April 12th, 2013. A quick glance at the clock in the dark tells you it’s 3 am. (It’s always 3 am. You don’t sleep much.)





	Oz

**Author's Note:**

> alternatively titled: That Damn Train Dream  
> anyway welcome to hell  
> i didnt proof this because its 9:40 pm on a thursday and im eating jujubes

You wake in a cold sweat, disoriented. 

The give of the bed is throwing you off. The city lights creeping through the blinds, too, the sound of cars. You don’t recognize the room your in for the longest time. 

You throw your blanket off as you sit up, curl up a little with your head in your hands. 

The cold from the mountains still clings to your skin and the fear, metallic and visceral, still tears through your veins, settles deep in the pit of your stomach. 

That dream again, huh. 

(Even when you had nothing, you had him.)

It takes you a while, twenty minutes if you had to guess, to settle down, to completely understand where and when you are.

Washington D.C, April 12th, 2013. A quick glance at the clock in the dark tells you it’s 3 am. (It’s always 3 am. You don’t sleep much.)

You swing your legs out of bed, set your feet on the floor, and sit there, for a while. 

Are you going to do it today? Are you? You’ve been meaning to, haven’t you? The stuff is in the kitchen. More than enough to kill a regular person, hopefully enough to kill you. You mull it over for a few minutes. You’re exhausted. It seems like a good time. As good a time as any, anyway. You’re a little disappointed that this will look like a suicide, (which, of course, it is), but not enough to care. You’d be sorry if you had anyone to be sorry to. 

Walking to the kitchen, you apologize to a few people anyway, quietly, under your breath. Peggy’s too far gone, Bucky and mom are dead. It’s fine. 

You pour yourself a glass of water first, drum your fingers on the counter as you drink it. Once you set the glass down, you nod to yourself. Okay. It’s in the cupboard, Steve. It’s time to go.

You didn’t write a note, but you don’t really think it’s of any consequence. You don’t care. You’re a man out of time, you’re too small for your body, and you’re tired of being what you aren’t. 

(A kid from Brooklyn. Just a kid from Brooklyn who doesn’t know when to run from a fight.)

The next few days are hell. You’ve taken more than should be enough to kill you, but you don’t die. Of course you don’t fucking die. You crashed into the goddamn arctic, froze for 70 years, and you’re still alive. Why in the hell would a little poison kill you?

Your head aches. You’re half certain that you vomit up just about everything you’ve ever eaten. You can barely move from where you’ve hunched over in the bathroom for almost an entire day. You daze, in and out. You have the train dream again, on the floor in the bathroom, and you wake up crying, shaking, hands balled into fists. You pass out in the bathtub that day too, have a different nightmare. It’s all nightmares, that’s fine. You don’t know what you did to deserve this, though you suppose trying to kill yourself might have been most of it. 

Natasha finds you on the third day, curled up under a blanket on your couch watching ‘The Wizard of Oz’. You unplugged your phone at some point, locked your door, shut off your cell. When you don’t answer her knock, or “Steve?” she just picks the lock. Turns out someone's been trying to get ahold of you, but you can’t be bothered to care. 

She tells you when she gets into the living room that you look like shit. You snort, don’t bother sitting up. You haven’t eaten anything in a few days, keep staying up until you pass out. Can’t remember when the last time you had anything to drink was. Your mouth is dry. 

She says something, but you’ve stopped listening. She keeps trying to talk to you, but you still aren’t listening. You don’t know when she figures it out, or when she leaves the living room, but she comes back with a glass of water and a box of crackers from your kitchen. She sets it on the coffee table and you thank her, but you make no move to grab it. She stands there for a second, before telling you to sit up and move over. You comply, because you know well enough not to argue with her, but keep yourself tucked under your blanket. You’re still weak, and you’re cold. You’d rather not be cold.

She tells you that if you at least drink the water, she’ll keep this between the two of you. Again, you comply.

“You should see someone, though. I’m not going to force you,” she says, looking at you before looking at the TV, “but it’d be a good idea.” You just nod. You aren’t going to, and you’re pretty sure she knows that. 

She’s quiet for a while, and so are you. It’s not necessarily a comfortable silence, but you’re thankful for the company. 

“So, what was it this time?” she says, not taking her eyes off the screen. Dorothy, Toto, and the Cowardly Lion begin falling asleep in the field of poppies and you pause. She raises an eyebrow at you. 

“Woke up from a nightmare a few nights ago,” you tell her after a beat. “It’s, uh. More of a memory than anything. I have it a lot. I was going to try sooner or later anyway, that was just what finalized it.” She hums in acknowledgement, and you’re exhausted. 

You rest against the back of the couch, and she doesn’t ask anymore questions.

You doze off before the end of the movie, and she’s gone when you wake. You dream, something bittersweet that you can’t remember when you open your eyes again, that leaves you feeling homesick and heavy anyway. You think this is worse than the nightmares. 

You find out from your text messages that Stark wanted help with something. He sounds irritated to you, sort of like a child who’s been told he can’t have the last cookie. It’s sort of comical- you smile, a little. You let him know your phone was off, and he replies fairly quickly. You talk to him, for a little while. It’s a nice distraction.

You don’t really get better. It’s alright though, you manage. You keep busy. 

(And then he’s back, Bucky’s back, and you flounder. You’re drowning, you’re drowning, you’re gone. He doesn’t recognize you, but you refuse to let him go.)


End file.
